Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 4

WORD OF THE STRYKER DUEL spread through the port quarter in the blink of an eye. Despite the early hour, a boisterous crowd of onlookers appeared next to the Copper Cauldron.

Leif René, who I had yet to see that day, was already on the scene. He was dragging a slightly wheezing, gray-bearded fat man in a dark robe. Apparently, he was a priest from the local temple of the Forefather. According to the rules of the ceasefire, a priest of that sect had to bless the upcoming duel so they gods wouldn’t be angered if blood was spilled.

Naturally, to make sure the duel abided by all the rules, the temple got some donations as well as did the priest attending to the event.

Leif and the priest were of approximately the same build, but despite his wooden prosthesis, the tavern owner moved with several times more energy than the flabby cultist. He never let himself get too far behind though, anticipating a generous reward.

I laughed and nodded at the savvy owner of the Copper Cauldron. He didn’t leave me hanging and responded with an identically cheeky smile. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Leif ran to the temple for a priest as soon as he found out the Count de Mornay was on his way into the port quarter.

While the duelers got prepared, the area outside the tavern entrance was cleared of tables and benches. The people formed a circle and, after a quick prayer from the priest, the strykers entered.

Today was my first time witnessing a mage duel.

And that scalawag Pierre Léger was not lying when he said his master was among the most powerful strykers. Scanning the Count de Mornay’s energy system and comparing it to Sigurd’s, I was forced to admit that my bodyguard was up against a worthy opponent. Honestly though, in terms of development of energy nodes and channels, the count lagged a good bit behind the former frost knight.

I wouldn’t be too far off to suggest that, in dusksworn guild qualifications, the count would be considered a strong medius. If he continued progressing at this pace, another few years of training and meditation would lead to Mainland gaining another avant.

Beyond that, unlike Sigurd, Étienne de Mornay had no problem with energy. He was draped in a dozen whole bruts like a Christmas tree.

I spent a little while watching him as he prepared for the fight. It was plain to see that the count was very agitated, though he was trying not to show it.

And of course… He had come to teach a lesson to a simple upstart chevalier, and now he was going to have to duel a fearsome stryker — and one with a Blades of Dusk medallion hanging around his neck at that.

Sigurd then acted like nothing was going on. I had already figured that this northerner was not all that easy to get to. He just slid a studious gaze over the count a few times and seemed to have seen enough.

Before Sigurd walked forward, I whispered to him quietly:

“If possible, don’t kill him. But don’t handicap yourself, either. I need you alive and well.”

After all, the death of a relation of the king of Bergonia might attract unwanted attention. Even though I had every right.

“Got it,” Sigurd nodded calmly and, drawing his sword, stepped forward.

The Count de Mornay, his chin thrust proudly upward, made a loud declaration while pointing the tip of his hand-and-a-half sword at me:

“After I’m done with the former priest, you’re next!”

The crowd buzzed with delight and approval. And the looks in the audience’s eyes retrained on me. Everyone was waiting for me to respond.

The show had begun!

As an aside, I saw no judgement in their eyes. Everyone seemed to understand that I wouldn’t have stood a single chance against a stryker. Thanks to my enhanced hearing, I started picking up fragmented sayings from the crowd. The way they talked about me even felt somewhat respectful. As if to say, that clever little fellow was able to afford a bodyguard from the dusksworn guild.

What was more, the northerners didn’t care one bit for some southerners. Let them cut each other down. They just wanted a good time, preferably with as much blood as possible.

“Your Lordship!” I responded with a smile. “I insist that you remove more of your jewelry! Otherwise all of it, along with that exquisite blade and fine armor will all find its way to the shelf of a local merchant!”

I heard laughter in the crowd.

“You’re next, whelp! You won’t be able to hide behind that heretic forever!”

Everyone around hummed in approval. They regarded Sigurd with clear disdain and scorn. But the stryker himself didn’t seem to care.

I switched to true vision as usual and looked around at all the people. As expected, I saw a few glowing magical spots in various parts of the crowd. A few gifted people must have come to enjoy the free show.

One of the lights came from a short woman of thirty years with snow-white hair braided into two long strands. Her pale cheeks danced with blush, while her light blue eyes were filled with a look of concern.

I followed her gaze and snorted to myself. She was clearly worried for my bodyguard. Very interesting…

Meanwhile, the priest blessed the fighters with protective signs and announced the start of the fight. A moment later, the crowd froze, watching the combat mages start their approach.

The tough and dangerous Sigurd looked like a cave bear about to make a deadly charge. His opponent the Count de Mornay on the other hand moved with the speed and grace of a stone cat.

They started with a quick series of blows. Their swords glimmered with magic light. Metal scraped against metal, sparking and squealing.

With every blow, the pace of their attacks quickened. The fighters were trying to feel for gaps in the other’s magic defenses. As a seer, I found them easy to spot but, alas, I couldn’t yet tell Sigurd. Also, to be honest, my bodyguard was doing a great job without any hints.

The thing was that while the crowd gaped, staring at the lightning-fast movements from the combat mages, more experienced observers like me for instance were perfectly aware that the duel was essentially already over, and Sigurd was going to win. The only reason the count was not yet laid out on the ground was because my bodyguard had to be careful not to kill him. He was looking for an opportunity to disarm the Bergonian without killing him.

And then, the fight finally reached its long-awaited peak. The Count de Mornay must have thought Sigurd’s passivity was cover for weakness or confusion. He smirked triumphantly, deciding to finish the battle with an elegant and grandiose lunge. My bodyguard couldn’t overlook the gift.

If I were in his place, I’d also have been sure to take advantage of the opportunity.

Sigurd dodged with unexpected ease from the count’s sharp lunge, then made a quick burst forward. The tip of his sword filled with dark lilac energy. And a moment later, he struck.

Sigurd aimed for the gap between his opponent’s shoulder plate and cuirass. With a sudden flash, a gap appeared in the count’s magic armor.

Étienne de Mornay gasped and, rolling his eyes back, fell to the ground. The pain must have shocked him into passing out. Blood streamed from the wound on his shoulder.

And he really got off easy. If Sigurd had kept feeding energy to his blade, the top half of the count’s body would have turned into a solid mass of bloody minced meat. His shoulder and arm meanwhile would have been torn off.

An eerie silence hung over the square where the duel had taken place. Everyone was waiting to see what the heretic would do next. I took a quick glance at the onlookers. Almost the exact same expression was stuck on all of their faces. They all were thinking the dusksworn was about to kill the count.

In his turn, he whipped around in silence and glanced at me. Waiting for a nod, he glanced at the count’s companions.

“My chevalier asked me not to kill your master,” he came “I have complied with his order. Tell His Lordship that he may deliver the trophies I earned for winning this duel to my employer. And another thing…”

Sigurd met eyes with Pierre Léger, who was peeking out from behind the backs of the count’s fighters and, nodding at him, stated in an icy tone:

“Along with the trophies, I want the liar’s tongue. That commoner must receive a fitting punishment.”

Pierre Léger’s puffy face went white, and a look of horror froze on his face.

“If not, I will come for it myself,” Sigurd added, then turned in silence and came walking my direction.

When I walked past the pretty woman with the unusual hair, I saw them exchange fleeting warm looks.

Hm… Apparently my bodyguard’s skin wasn’t all that thick after all. Evidently, the heart of the former frost knight belonged to this true gifted woman.

* * *

The outskirts of Fjordgrad, where the capital city’s top workshops were located, was in some way reminiscent of Vestonian crafting quarters. It was a neighborhood that, like its southern counterparts, brimmed with unusual sounds, aromas, and an atmosphere of mysticism and creation. Narrow little streets wound between stone buildings to form a labyrinth where one could easily get lost on their first visit.

Lining those little streets, I found various workshops, each with its own banner and crier. Smithies where the clanging song of hammer on anvil burst forth, jewelers’ workshops where golden masterworks glimmered in the rays of the northern sun. Out of a manor near the very edge, wafting with its own particular aromas, was a leatherworker’s shop.

The air of the Crafting District, which was how this place was called, was saturated with smells such as leather, wood, stone, and many other materials all mixed with the sour-bitter stench of the alchemy shops, where potions and concoctions brewed away. The energy of creation and diligent labor were evident in every corner, every sound, and every shop.

The huge wheels of water mills churned under the pressure of a mountain stream that flowed through the district. The stream was the founding kernel of the Crafting District, in fact. And it was known throughout Northland and beyond. The river’s power set various mechanisms into motion used to aid the craftspeople. Owing to the Great Trial, work there was in full swing, not taking even a minute’s break. The craftspeople and their apprentices labored for days on end to complete orders from the many outlanders who had come to the capital of Vintervald.

If the locals were to be believed, every craftsperson working there constantly strove to hone their craft. This was a place merchants came to from all over the continent when they needed unique and high-quality works or services unavailable elsewhere due to the draconian regulations of the southern magic guilds. And thus, most contraband bruts and other shadow ingredients made their way to these very craftspeople.

Local artifactor-artisans were under the personal protection of the konung of Vintervald, so they had no time for southern laws. They plied their wares and kept their mouths shut. And that was precisely where I asked Sigurd to take me…

We walked up to a two-story stone building, and Sigurd stopped.

“Here it is,” he came, nodding to a heavy front door all decked out in steel bands. “This is the workshop of Albrecht Lothar, artifactor. A person I’ve known a long time.”

Patting his leather breastplate, Sigurd added:

“His work.”

I nodded and said:

“Lead the way.”

Without another word, Sigurd grasped the steel ring of the door and pulled it toward him. The heavy-looking door smoothly gave way and somewhere deep within I heard the melodic chiming of a bell, informing the owners that new clients had come to visit.

Stepping through the door, we made it into a spacious weapon shop that looked Ursula Hoog’s in Abbeville. Honestly though, the decor of this establishment was imbued with less of that all-encompassing pathos that defined Ursula’s weapon shop. This one also had a lot more weapons.

The walls were decked out with all kinds of weapons ranging from swords with long blades to massive halberds and battle axes. The shop display cases were arranged with care, each item having a place of its own.

The well-composed lighting and the sheer abundance of goods had my eyes flitting all around. In the corner, I saw a workbench with tools on it as well as various designs meant to bear witness to the craftsman’s creative torments. I mentally placed another plus into the column of whoever designed this place.

On the wall opposite the entrance, there were mannequins with shields and stryker armor sets made of various materials. In the corner past the counter, in the most visible and well-lit location, there were sets of rare and exotic artifacts decorated with gold and gemstones.

In the middle of the shop was a small passageway framed with cases holding knives, daggers, and other small piercing and slashing implements. The shelves held weapons from various regions and countries.

While I looked around, Sigurd traded words with the seller, who stood at the counter. When my bodyguard was finished, the clerk ducked into the dark passage of a back door and, a few minutes later, a man of medium height appeared in the door frame with free-flowing light-chestnut locks and a sharp, intelligent gaze. By the look of him, he was forty or forty-five years old.

In his left hand he held a tool that resembled a pair of pliers. When he saw us, he placed the tool on the table and, smiling openly, greeted Sigurd.

“Well look what the cat dragged in! You haven’t been here in ages. Have you finally gathered the courage to bring me back my sword?”

Sigurd snorted and, setting a hand on the grip of his sword, replied:

“Yeah right… Moonfang isn’t for sale. And you know that perfectly well.”

“Too bad,” chuckled the man, who seemed to have been Albrecht. At the very least, his dark brown energy system indicated as much. “I could give you a good price for it.”

“Best friends aren’t for sale,” Sigurd muttered back.

“If you say so,” the craftsman said, still smiling and raising a hand. “Okay, then you have my full attention.”

“Allow me to present my employer,” came Sigurd, stepping aside to let me through. “This is Chevalier Renard. Your Worship, this is Albrecht Lothar, the master weaponsmith I told you about.”

“Your Worship,” the craftsman gave a slight bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Albrecht smiled, but I could see that he was surprised and somewhat taken aback by my height and appearance.

“Same to you, Maître Lothar,” I replied.

“And I’m doubly glad that Sigurd finally found employment. You’d never find a better fighter or bodyguard in the whole capital.”

“That much I know,” I nodded. “This morning, Sigurd put his incredible skills on full display.”

“Is that right?” the craftsman’s thick brows shot upward. “I hope you’re alright.”

“It was nothing out of the ordinary…” Sigurd waved it off. “Just one medius who held a high opinion of himself… gods know where he got it from. A certain Count de Mornay.”

“Étienne de Mornay of Bergonia?” Albrecht Lothar somehow knew of him.

“The same,” I replied and asked: “Know him?”

“Not personally, no. But I’ve heard tell,” the maître replied. “He’s a close relation of the Bergonian royal family. He trained at the Sapphire Guild.”

“Doughy weaklings,” Sigurd commented.

“What about the Marquise de Latille?” Albrecht quickly objected. “To my eye, he was one of the most powerful avants of his time. And he trained at the Sapphire Guild.”

“De Latille is an exception,” Sigurd replied. “But he was too cocky. And that was his undoing.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Disappeared in the Frosty Gloom,” the maître responded with a sigh.

I just snorted with understanding. The Frosty Gloom was what they called the northern Shadow up here.

“Listen, Albrecht, we didn’t come all this way to reminisce about long dead acquaintances,” Sigurd redirected the conversation.

“Yes, of course,” the craftsman nodded. “Might I ask what brought you here then?”

I nodded at the craftsman and pointed Sigurd in silence to a bulky backpack given to him by Bertrand before he left. The mercenary took it off his shoulders and set it on the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I looked on with interest. The issue was that Sigurd was still unaware of the true reason for our visit to the Crafting District.

Untying the string, I took a thick envelope from the backpack, then another, but smaller and set them both on the counter. A few moments later, while both gifted men looked on in astonishment, I unfolded the black skin of a shadow snake, and placed atop it the two snake fangs.

“What is that?” the maître asked in a slightly hoarse voice. Meanwhile, he led a trembling hand cautiously over the scaled skin.

“Materials for you to use to make me a suit of armor and a pair of swords,” I answered calmly.